


Brotherhood

by BazinMousqueton



Series: The Body and the Battle [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Only The Scarf), (sorry), Athos's Scarf, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Scarf Kink, Spoilers Through to 1x05, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Porthos persuades Athos to take off his scarf, Aramis uses it to blindfold Porthos, and Porthos gets everything he needs. </p><p>Or: Porthos wants to cheer Aramis up by trying it blindfold, Aramis is enthusiastic, and also Aramis is a complete tease. (Post-melon ;)</p><p>The fics in this series are chronological but standalone -- there's no need to read the earlier ones to enjoy this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a thing. It takes more words to write porn using only four senses than using all five. Either that or I have a major blindfold kink (or, more specifically, an Athos-scarf kink) and got carried away...
> 
> Set after 1x05 (Homecoming).

Porthos and Athos paused in the the tavern's doorway, letting d'Artagnan go ahead. Warmth and candlelight from inside spilled over them. Porthos breathed in the smell of spilt wine and sawdust, the scent of burning tallow.

Athos gave Porthos a questioning look: a tilt of his head, a quirk of an eyebrow, a brief flex of his lips. Porthos understood. _Are you alright?_ it said. _I know how it feels to face execution. And to have left another life behind._ In front of the firing squad Athos had seemed to welcome death. Porthos, on the tumbril, had been terrified, yet sure his brothers would come for him.

Porthos rested his hand on Athos's shoulder, squeezed. _Brotherhood,_ his grip said. _That's all I need._

Athos nodded. D'Artagnan finally noticed they weren't at his back. He turned.

"Are you coming?"

It was a slow night in Le Tambour Royal -- so quiet their favourite table, in the middle of the vaulted room, was free. Porthos, delighted not to have to start the evening with an argument, strode towards it, gathering d'Artagnan on the way. 

Athos halted.

"Dear God," he said. Aramis sat at Athos's customary table, tucked away at the side of the tavern, his head bowed, his hand wrapped round a nearly-empty wine bottle. "Is that how I usually look?"

"Aramis is prettier," Porthos said.

Athos half-closed his eyes and gave Porthos a sidelong glance. Porthos grinned. 

"You're more of a ruggedly handsome drunk," he said.

"That's a comfort," Athos said.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos considered as they sat down. Aramis had been full of banter as they'd left the Court; joshing Porthos, hiding his relief behind funeral humour. What had changed? Aramis generally celebrated near-misses; he didn't mourn them. Unless this wasn't about Porthos...

"It's Charon," Porthos said, certain. "Aramis killed a man coming at me with a knife. Then he learnt Charon used to be a brother to me." 

Athos shot him a look of sudden comprehension. "Marsac," he said.

Exactly: Aramis had shot his old comrade; now he'd stabbed Porthos's childhood friend. Aramis didn't feel guilt about many things, despite his religion, but the breaking of a brotherhood could shatter him.

D'Artagnan half stood, his stool scraping against the bare earth floor. Both Porthos and Athos grabbed him, fast, an arm each.

"What?" d'Artagnan said. "Someone needs to tell Aramis to cheer up."

"Yeah, that'll work," Porthos said. "I bet he hasn't thought of cheering up."

Athos frowned to silence Porthos. He handed a coin to d'Artagnan.

"Wine," he said. " _Not_ the Montreuil."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it when Athos twitched an eyebrow. Porthos admired his friend's authority. Athos hadn't even needed to frown at the lad. They released d'Artagnan and watched him trot away from Aramis and towards the bar.

The difference between Porthos's Musketeer brothers and Charon wasn't simply honour. Porthos had seen Charon with new eyes: a weak man; King of the Court of Miracles through bribery and intrigue, never happy with himself. When they'd fought, Charon's strength hadn't come from inside. Athos -- trained in fencing since childhood -- moved from his core, wielding a focused energy: strong and controlled. Charon -- trained to steal as a boy, his fingers capable of precision and delicacy when pocket-picking -- moved from his shoulders: underpowered and wild.

It showed in their walks. Athos: always a predator. Charon: destined to be prey.

Flea, as Queen, would make a much better leader than Charon ever had.

Porthos smiled.

"You have an idea?" Athos asked, bringing Porthos back to the Tambour and the question of Aramis. Porthos held up his hand -- _one moment_ \-- and thought quickly. His mind flashed to his birthday, Aramis curling his moustache, beaming when Porthos made his shot, walking towards Porthos--

Porthos swallowed, his mouth dry. Aramis walked like a cat: dangerous, lithe and intense, moving from his hips, reserves of power coiled and ready.

\--and the memory of Aramis, sweet-scented and drenched in melon, told Porthos what he had to do. 

"I'll need something of yours," Porthos said. Athos spread his hands: _anything_. Porthos drew out the moment. He was going to enjoy this. 

"Your scarf," he said.

Athos's only response was a slight widening of his eyes. He didn't move. Porthos beckoned.

"Come on," he said. "Get it off."

Porthos's heart thumped as Athos raised his hands to his scarf. Athos untied the knot, slowly, his gaze locked with Porthos's. Porthos attempted to keep his face impassive. A glimmer of amusement in his friend's blue-green eyes told him he hadn't succeeded. Athos loosened the loops around his neck, revealing slashes of pale skin. He kept his movements unhurried as he lifted his arm to uncoil the scarf. Porthos's cock twitched. He shifted in his seat. Athos half-smiled at the movement. He drew his scarf off with a flourish, folded it into a neat square, and placed it on the table. 

Porthos reached for his friend. He touched the exposed skin in the vee of Athos's shirt, ran his hand up to Athos's neck, and curled his fingers around Athos's nape. He pulled Athos in and leant forwards until their foreheads touched. He only held the embrace for a couple of seconds -- a brotherly length of time. It was long enough to discover Athos's pulse was racing as fast as Porthos's. 

"Thank you," Porthos said as he stood and gathered the soft package of Athos's scarf. He held it to his face and sniffed. Athos's nostrils flared. Porthos grinned as he turned away, satisfied he was making progress in his campaign to win Athos. He caught a glimpse of d'Artagnan staring and raised Athos's scarf in salute. 

Aramis didn't look up when Porthos loomed over him. Porthos pulled the wine bottle from his grip. Aramis protested, tried to grab it back. 

"You've had enough," Porthos said, placing the bottle on the table behind him. He unfurled Athos's scarf and stretched it taut between his hands. Aramis froze at its quiet snap. He lunged for the scarf. Porthos lifted it out of his reach. 

"This is for me," Porthos said, touching the scarf to his cheek. It rasped against his beard.

Aramis rested his elbows on the chair back, smiling as he reclined, much more himself. "Is that so? Send me over another bottle on your way out, won't you?"

"You're coming with me."

Aramis raised his eyebrows. "I am?"

"Remember my birthday?"

"Better than you do, my friend."

Porthos lowered his voice to a growl. "And what did I suggest?" He remembered his exact words: _How about we try it blindfold?_

Aramis darted a glance at the scarf. He licked his lips. 

"In that case," he said, retrieving his hat, "perhaps it is time to go?"

Porthos wrapped the scarf around his neck and tucked it carefully into his doublet before leaving the tavern. 

# # #

They chose Porthos's apartment. Aramis prowled across the room, shedding weapons. 

"Give it to me," Aramis said, dropping his hat onto Porthos's chair. Porthos lit the last candle and blew out the taper. Aramis stretched out his hand, impatient. "The scarf. I believe I should take charge of it."

A thrill ran down Porthos's neck. He shivered. "I think it suits me."

Aramis folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "I can barely see it," he said. "Maybe if you took off the doublet. And your shirt."

Porthos complied, hurried fingers fumbling with his buttons. The ends of Athos's scarf brushed across his chest. His nipples tightened. Aramis smiled and leant against the wall, visibly aroused, his coat falling open. 

"Breeches too," Aramis said, adjusting his own.

Porthos's breath hitched. He hopped to pull off his boots and unbuttoned his breeches. He pushed them down, leaving the breeches puddled on the floor and striding towards Aramis wearing only his drawers. His cock, half-hard, strained against the laces; their tense criss-cross rubbed against him deliciously. 

Aramis dodged. "Oh no, my friend," he said, holding Porthos at arm's length. "You don't get to do any touching tonight."

Porthos groaned. Aramis laughed. 

"Hands by your side," he said, kneeling in front of Porthos and untying the tight laces. Porthos gulped in a shaky breath as Aramis slid the drawers down and rose, still fully clothed. 

"You were right," Aramis said, circling Porthos. Porthos's cock, now fully erect, throbbed. Aramis stepped close behind Porthos, pressing against him. He whispered into Porthos's ear: "It does suit you." He unwound the scarf. "It will look even better blocking your sight. On the bed."

Porthos didn't react to the order immediately. Aramis flicked the scarf at his back, its crack and sting too gentle to hurt.

"Do as I say," Aramis said. "Face down. Close your eyes."

Porthos obeyed. His cock pushed into the mattress. He rested his forehead on his hands. The bed shifted as Aramis joined him, throwing a leg across Porthos. The seam of his leather breeches inscribed itself into the small of Porthos's back. Aramis moved. Fabric pressed on Porthos's eyelids. He smelt Athos and bit his lip. Aramis twisted the scarf across Porthos's eyes a second time. Porthos's head jerked up as Aramis knotted the ends.

"Too tight?" Aramis asked.

Porthos shook his head. 

"Can you see?"

"Can't even open my eyes."

Aramis's weight settled back onto Porthos's buttocks, creased leather warm against skin. "Perfect. I want you to keep still, especially your hands. Do you understand?"

Porthos nodded. The weight on his back lifted; the bed creaked as Aramis left it. Porthos burrowed his head into the pillow to stifle his disappointed moan. A chuckle from the far side of the room signalled his failure. He listened intently to Aramis's booted footsteps, holding his breath each time they approached the bed. Something supple fell to the floor -- Aramis's coat? A barely-perceptible suserration could be Aramis untucking his shirt. Those two thuds were Aramis flinging his boots into the corner of the room, allowing him to pad near-soundlessly across the floor.

Porthos smelt olive oil.

His cock responded immediately to the scent's association with fucking and being fucked. Porthos arched his back. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears, thwarting his effort to track Aramis. He took deep breaths until he'd calmed. 

A glug of oil located Aramis: directly above. Porthos started at the touch of warm hands on his shoulders. Strong fingers kneaded his muscles, easing with an edge of pain. He gasped as Aramis ran the heel of one hand up the axe wound on his right shoulder, still not fully healed. Lips followed the hand, soothing, then the skim of linen. Aramis's shirt, billowing across Porthos's back as Aramis bent close, bringing with it the charcoal smell of gunpowder and the tang of sweat.

Porthos flexed his fingers, fighting the temptation to reach for Aramis. He pictured his friend: barefoot, in breeches, his shirt hanging loose. He'd have slipped his braces off, left them to dangle. His shirt would have slipped too, revealing one perfect shoulder. The right shoulder, Porthos decided. The one with the musket ball scar from the Ile de Ré.

Aramis stroked lower. He massaged Porthos's buttocks and thighs. Porthos relaxed into the sensation, the slick glide of oiled skin on skin. He'd had a difficult couple of days. He needed this -- a lover who knew his body; the uncomplicated comfort of touch; a release which didn't require words.

Aramis eased Porthos's legs apart and settled between them, not touching. The bed rocked and stilled. Porthos tensed. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed under the blindfold in an attempt to boost his other senses. A faint rustle told him Aramis was in motion. The slightest hint of warmth, in two moving patches running up the outside of his thighs and on up to his ribs, suggested Aramis's hands, skimming a hairsbreadth above Porthos's skin.

Porthos whimpered and wriggled, wanting Aramis's touch.

Aramis clapped his hands to Porthos's ribs. Porthos sighed into them, congratulating himself on guessing their position. Aramis dragged down, his fingernails grazing Porthos's sides. When the hands reached Porthos's thighs they gripped; pulled; rearranged Porthos so his legs pressed against Aramis's.

Aramis's _naked_ legs.

The unexpected touch of bare skin on bare skin, where Porthos had thought to feel worn leather, made Porthos gasp. Aramis hummed at the sound and pulled Porthos's buttocks apart. Porthos convulsed at the warm wetness of a tongue circling his ass. Aramis teased, his licks firm, the tip of his tongue pushing inside. Porthos moaned. His breath rasped. Porthos couldn't feel the brush of Aramis's hair: he must be holding it out of his face. He re-imagined Aramis: naked except for his shirt. The Queen's cross swinging on his chest. His cock standing proud.

A wave of arousal rushed through Porthos. He panted; thought of cold rivers and dull parades. He wasn't ready to come.

Aramis pulled away. His feet thumped to the floor. 

"Turn over," he said. 

"Do I get something in return?" Porthos asked.

An indrawn breath. A swish. Had Aramis crossed his arms?

"A request," Aramis said, laughter in his voice.

"Two," Porthos said.

"Very well."

Porthos rolled onto his back, his oiled skin slippery against the sheet. He clasped his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. He angled his head towards Aramis's presence.

"Your skin -- _all_ your skin -- against mine," Porthos said. A floorboard creaked as Aramis's weight shifted. Linen whispered over hair and pattered to the floor. Porthos smiled. "And a kiss."

Aramis swarmed onto him, bare chest to bare chest. It took all Porthos's self control not to take Aramis in his arms. Aramis thrust one leg between Porthos's. Their cocks touched as Aramis brought his lips down. They both moaned into the kiss. Aramis tasted of wine, of Porthos's sweat, and -- only a hint, somewhere underneath the drinking binge -- sweet melon. He kissed ferociously. Porthos kissed back equally roughly. Their teeth clashed. Aramis bit Porthos's top lip. Porthos felt his friend's hips buck; Aramis's hard cock ground into Porthos's thigh. The scent of olive oil enveloped them.

Aramis slithered away, leaving Porthos bereft. He stilled, following Aramis's barefoot steps. They stopped at the foot of the bed. Porthos strained to hear. A shout from the street outside. The crackle of a guttering candle. A sigh. 

A muted stroke, its rhythm accelerating.

Goosebumps prickled across Porthos's body as he realised what Aramis was doing. Now he'd identified the sound it was unmistakable: the slide of oiled fingers, the familiar hitch in Aramis's breathing as he thumbed his cock's tip, the sweep of Aramis's free hand through his hair. Porthos focused. He recognised the change in speed that meant Aramis was close. Porthos admired Aramis's dedication to silence. Usually he'd be moaning by now, maybe even mumbling Porthos's name.

Aramis sucked in an unsteady breath. A split second later the warmth of Aramis's come splashed onto Porthos's legs, dripping down his shins and onto the sheet. Porthos moaned, his cock aching. Aramis allowed himself a long sigh. 

Porthos trembled. He waited. He heard Aramis move. Aramis's mouth closed around Porthos's cock. Porthos cried out. Aramis's tongue swirled and flicked. Porthos's attention narrowed to that single point of contact. He couldn't hold back. Pleasure flooded through him. He released. Aramis kept his mouth in place, sucking until Porthos was fully spent.

They lay curled together, exhausted and breathless, until the sweat began to chill their bodies. Aramis lifted Porthos's head to untie and unwrap the scarf. Porthos opened his eyes, blinking at the light, and looked up into Aramis's face. Aramis's cheeks were flushed. Drops of Porthos's come beaded his moustache. Aramis draped Athos's scarf across Porthos's stomach.

"Do you need anything?" Aramis asked.

Porthos basked in the sight of his beautiful lover, then shut his eyes to better appreciate Aramis's sounds, his touch, his smell, his taste. 

"I have everything I need," he said. "You. This. Brotherhood."


End file.
